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A short man walk's up to the board, his face childlike stare's up at the writing's on the board, mumbling as he read's, tear's come to his clear bright grey eye's.
He bow;s his head in reference to the fallen, from out of his shabby little brown waist coat hidden behind his many pouch's
he take's out a neatly almost reverently folded piece of paper.
Pinning it to the wall he then step's back and again bow's his head in silent prayer,his message say's.."TO all the hero's
that have fallen and will fall in the battle of"the lance"and to my uncle the smallest bravest of them all "the great wooly mamouth slayer" we the "kender race" salute you.
He then turn and walk's away head bow and silently crying.

Huh?

*A very tall man heads up to the wall, and looks at it*
"Well, maybe just for this..."
*A blue light comes from a necklace he is wearing. He pants some and takes out four rings and magically molds them in the wall, with a note that can never be taken off underneath them. He then walks off, the blue light from the necklace once again appears.*

To my father, mother, and wife. May they all rest in peace, and be in my heart forever. You shall now be known.

A quick buff of a forgotten plaque, burnishing it brightly.. around it arranged several bouquets of white roses and lilies... and underneath sat with them, a small note.

A Bard knows when to write their Ending;
A noted scale knows what it is sending;
A play with actors must have their bow out;
A book of words must back up what it touts.
My Bardic child, may you sing again
Where you can always be free.

My child, Alantie. Forever, be free.

~ Bhryn ~

Underneath, another plaque, this in black and enamelled in white:

Black are shadows,
Dark is the night:
In your eyes Salvation
And in your soul, Light.
Touch upon the world
And leave none to part.
Welcome in a lovely song;
Into your mistaken heart.

Ebon, find what peace I could not give you in life, with Alantie now. Be free.

A gnome walks up to the wall, and takes out a branch of thistle, and a cup of ashes. He dips the thistle in his ash, then lights part of it on fire.

For you, my comrade, Aelivius. May you be one with the Holy Thistle in the Newtimes. We have striven to fight against the pure-blood in our sister city of Claddaghen. And they'll be driven from our hometown of Thistledown. Amen.